Pride goeth before destruction

Pride goeth before destruction,

So, she always gets one wrong

And spoils the perfect 10

She so covets, covets

Like battery acid in the gut

She argues over my marking

That ‘e’ is really an ‘a’, so it’s right!

A clash of wills, I don’t submit

Even for a quiet life

She checks classmates’ work

For errors, but with a view

To reducing their score!

And argues this too

I tell to mind her own business

She threatens me with incompetence

And when force doesn’t work

She switches to tears, easily

For her own sake and for that

Of her future husbands I resist

Her various manipulations, sometimes

It feels like I am her future husband

Finally she gets them all correct

I congratulate, genuinely pleased

For her and equally relived for myself

But alas to find the taste of victory

Did not bring the expected sweetness

Of spirit distilled from relief

But hubristic residue: It’s about time

I was shown some respect!

and a haughty spirit before a fall.

By way of contrast with last week’s wonderful little girl of the past, I present a sometimes less wonderful little girl of the present.

Such a child, here illustrated in the poem, could not and would not have displayed this bumptiousness in a class of her grandmother’s time. And any age prior to this would have rendered, even the thought, utterly inconceivable. She could have played the Catherine de' Medici at home, or perhaps the playground, but it was against just such lèse-majesté that teachers were armed with the belt. Whether its use (or more likely, threat of) could have sweetened her character is perhaps to be debated later, but it would have certainly put a leash on her tongue and the persecution of her classmates - and thus served, it could be argued, the public good.

I must note that I rather admired, grudgingly, the daemon that drove this child. It is unusual to find one, at such a young age (P3), so directly combative against an adult. If only this energy could have been put to a kinder and more positive end; she could have been a little shining star, instead of a dark star.

I rather fancied her as fixable, but this process would have to come with her maturity. There is no way in the educational world of the present that such a child could be sorted. This is our tragedy and hers.

I wish her well. And hope that she doesn't read this; I'm a wee bit scared of her coming to my door to tell me who's who and what's what.